


the id of gods

by jongdaesang (d10smessi)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Greek Mythology, M/M, Romance, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 08:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11528883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d10smessi/pseuds/jongdaesang
Summary: Kyungsoo’s existence strips the divinity off of Jongin but the King of the Underworld and the God of Spring Growth are just lonely deities desiring things they cannot have.





	the id of gods

**Author's Note:**

> based on my [TWEET FIC](https://twitter.com/official_KJD21/status/885057544821100544).
> 
>  
> 
> an alternate interpretation of the greek myth of hades and persephone purely for fun. does NOT follow the typical myth. i meant no offense to any culture or theism.

 

It’s spring, on a Tuesday, because Jongin still remembers what day it is even if he’s been alive far too long and far too often. He’s met with his financial manager and he’s dressed properly in a designer suit, tattoos hidden from stigma. Something cracks in the air, something small, almost unnoticeable, but Jongin is a principal god who’s always been too wary and too cautious—too afraid, sometimes.

 

(A shame, really—a god being scared.)

 

He’s walking downtown when he feels something different, something quite literally godly, and he turns his head around a little bit. He stops on the sidewalk, leather soles on gray concrete, and he closes his eyes and breathes. Once he opens them, he sees shops filled with people and someone almost bumps into him. He zeroes in on a small flower shop in between a picturesque cafe and an establishment that’s a cross between a bookstore and an art gallery. 

 

His feet walk on their own and he crosses the street hastily. There’s a chalkboard outside of the store with _Spring Growth_ written in a neat handwriting. No frills, not even a simple cursive, a little bit of impersonality on the sans serif except there’s a colorful chalk drawing of a bunch of flowers Jongin doesn’t know the names of.

 

And then, Jongin sees _him._

 

Like gravity, he’s pulled together and his life flashes in front of his eyes and everything makes sense, right at that moment. Millennia of boredom and desolation, of deaths and despair, suddenly bleed out when that person, that god, inquires to a shop assistant with a yellow apron, “How much for a bunch of baby’s breath?”

 

“Kyungsoo,” he whispers, like he instantly knows.

 

Kyungsoo turns around and he flinches. His soft smile freezes and then, turns fake. It’s ugly and Jongin does not want to see the God of Spring Growth look like he’s trying hard not to grimace in the presence of the dead. 

 

(Jongin is not exactly the god of death, but years of job descriptions blurring each other have him saddled with additional titles that come with more responsibilities.)

 

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Kyungsoo asks. His pink lips curl around the words slowly, deep voice reverberating in Jongin’s sternum. The fear in his eyes morphs into something completely different, akin to wonder and then, a little bit of amazement. It shocks him—no one really manages to overcome the terror directed at the King of the Underworld completely.

 

(And yet, here’s Kyungsoo, peering up at Jongin with an indiscernible gaze. He can’t place it but it’s not fright or trepidation.)

 

Jongin shakes his head, replying, “No. I’m sorry. I was just passing by when I felt another—presence.”

 

Kyungsoo's smile turns tighter at that, lips pursed but nonetheless still attractive. “I’m not _here_ for long.”

 

Jongin nods—Kyungsoo’s parent has always been overprotective. Yixing only has Kyungsoo and he’ll never let his son wander too much in the mortal world—never let Kyungsoo _wander_. It’s surprising that Kyungsoo is even here instead of the paradise Yixing has imprisoned him in.

 

He straightens the lines of his suit and Kyungsoo’s eyes widen a little bit, as if he has read Jongin’s thoughts. He sees the shorter god blink rapidly, thrice, four times in succession, before his Adam’s apple bobs, gulping.

 

Jongin plays with the cuff on his left hand and he murmurs, “I won’t tell Yixing.”

 

(He keeps it a secret—seeing Kyungsoo in the mortal world where he’s not allowed to be.

 

Jongin goes down to the Underworld with a slight quirk on his lips, crooked, and curiosity running in his veins. He’s vaguely aware of Kyungsoo—most of them in conjunction with the overbearing Yixing—but this is the first time he has gotten a glimpse of the hidden god, the God of Spring Growth, and Jongin thinks, the name fits. Kyungsoo can make flowers bloom with a sigh.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jongin takes his suit jacket off and he rolls the sleeves on his shirt carefully—once, twice, thrice—until they’re at his elbows. He undoes the top buttons, the first three, and the fabric falls away to reveal a peek of an intricate black tattoo stretching to his neck. It’s an artistic rendition of cypress leaves painted on his golden skin like life records of all the souls in Hades. His watch is heavy on his left wrist. 

 

He sits on his throne, sprawled lazily, and it feels unnatural but familiar. It says a lot about him that something made out of misery feels like home. A servant comes up to him carrying a tray and he plucks out a crystal goblet filled with blood red wine. Gods love drinking alcohol even if they cannot get drunk.

 

Jongin takes a large sip and he leans on his right, elbow on the armrest of his throne while his palm is closed in a loose fist and cradling the side of his head. He crosses his legs, left over right, and the goblet dangles on the tips of his fingers uncaringly.

 

“Do you know anything about the God of Spring Growth?” He asks, addressing no one. The fluttering souls stop and some even stare in incredulity. Jongin chuckles.

 

“I’m just curious.” He waves them off with a slight smile, gesturing for them to continue what they’re doing with the crystal glass. Wine spills a little and Jongin clicks his tongue in annoyance.

 

A brave servant asks, out of the blue, “Did you see him today, Master?”

 

Jongin turns to him with one eyebrow raised. He takes a sip of his wine but his eyes do not leave the servant’s. The other flinches and they lower their head down.

 

“I’m sorry for speaking out of turn, Master.”

 

Jongin waves them off and he stretches the arm holding the goblet. Another servant comes to him and Jongin places the empty glass on the metal tray, diamonds embedded on its side, glinting. 

 

(Gods don’t need to stand up to do one single thing.)

 

He turns back to the servant who still has their head low, as if waiting punishment. Jongin asks, “Why do you think I’ve met Kyungsoo?”

 

“Can I speak honestly, Master?” The servant replies, raising their head a little. Jongin gives a firm nod and the other’s posture turns a little more confident, bolder.

 

They add, “There are stories of people, the dead, who have met the God of Spring Growth at least once. They said he could make any person happy.” The servant pauses and they stare at Jongin straight in the eyes, resolute and, perhaps, stupid. “You’re smiling, Master.”

 

(He is no person, no mortal, but gods, it seems, are also vulnerable in the face of Kyungsoo.)

 

Jongin laughs out loud.

 

(He is, he realizes. He really is smiling.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jongin visits the Moirai and he finds them among the mortals in Gangnam, owning a high-class fortune telling boutique and selling charms and antiques.

 

“Hello, King of the Underworld,” Baekhyun drawls. “To what do our humble selves owe the pleasure?”

 

“I think,” Jongin sits down in front of the three siblings, unbuttoning his suit jacket with his back straight and feet planted on the plush carpet, “you already know what I am doing here.”

 

Minseok smirks, “Of course, we do. This is about Kyungsoo, the child of Yixing.”

 

Jongin feels suffocated, just a little bit, as three pairs of eyes look at him, unblinking. They stare through him, past him, irises turning into an unnatural shade of blue-green from the usual mud brown. Chills go down from the top knob on his spine down to his tail bone and he instinctively curls his toes inside his Italian dress shoes. The spinner, Junmyeon, smiles a bit but it’s predatory. There’s a glint in his eyes that is so apparent in the light shade the color of a placid sea.

 

“You are envious of him, Jongin,” Junmyeon says after a moment. “And maybe something more—curiosity. Or.”

 

Junmyeon stops and the three siblings share a _look_ like they know. And they do. Surely.

 

“We cannot interfere in the hands of Fate,” Baekhyun notes, a warning on the edge of his lips before Jongin even opens his mouth to say something. 

 

“I am not here to ask for a favor,” the God of the Underworld replies. He crosses his legs and takes a deep breath, linking both his hands on top of his knee. His back remains perfectly vertical and his shoulders are strong in its breadth.

 

(Jongin is a king through and through.)

 

“Then, tell us,” Minseok requests. His dainty hand gestures towards Jongin and the rings on his fingers glimmer under the scattered lighting of the room. The long earrings pierced on each of his lobes sway, catching glare and throwing rainbows on the man’s face. Minseok’s features remain neutral as he carries on, “Tell us what you want, King of the Underworld.”

 

Jongin breathes out, “I want to see Kyungsoo again.”

 

(He has a lot of things, has wanted a lot of things, but this one—Jongin hungers for.)

 

Junmyeon cocks his head to the right and his eyes run up and down Jongin’s seated figure. “You want too much, Jongin. You do not want to see the God of Spring Growth again—you want to see him always, whenever you want, but Kyungsoo has been hidden by Yixing somewhere—nowhere.”

 

“But it is a place that gods can go to, no?”

 

Both of Baekhyun’s eyebrows raise at that.

 

“Yes,” and as if stating the obvious, continues, “you want to know where it is.”

 

Jongin remains mum but he tilts his head a little with a smirk on his own lips. It’s a show of challenge, a dare. The light dims a little bit and Minseok visibly bristles.

 

(Only Jongin is brave enough to provoke the temperamental Fates.)

 

“Then we will tell you,” Minseok says through gritted teeth. Out of the three of them, he’s the one who is easily riled up. “The God of Spring Growth resides at the liminal between mortality and the pantheon.”

 

Baekhyun grins like a shark. “He is lonely, King of the Underworld. Alone by himself in the most beautiful place to ever exist.”

 

Junmyeon bites his lower lip and his eyebrows furrow, almost meeting in the middle. He says, “Perhaps this is meant to be.”

 

The Moirai turn to Jongin again and the light, this time, disappears. Jongin remains on his spot, sitting the same way—confident.

 

The three of them say slowly, simultaneously, dragging the syllables like a curse and a blessing at the same time, “King of the Underworld, you do not know what you are doing. Spring will never be the same again.”

 

Jongin, like any person or god whose life has collided with the existence of the Fates, leaves the boutique with coldness in his bones.

 

(Yet, there is warmth in the pit of Jongin’s stomach, creeping up into his chest and enveloping his heart. He knows where Kyungsoo is.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jongin is in the _nowhere_ that the Moirai have pointed him towards—it’s the place of non-existence, non-abstract certainties folding into the metaphysics of the universe. It’s the small plane in the boundaries of mortals and deities.

 

Of course, he thinks, Yixing is a principal god too. He can give only the best to his beloved son.

 

Jongin is behind a tree, far enough that his concealed presence will not be felt—though the worry is unfounded with his Helm. He’s in casual clothes this time—a red t-shirt and dark jeans. The sun feels good on his tanned skin and his tattoos look more vibrant than they are, alive and seemingly in motion.

 

He spies Kyungsoo on the front porch of his tiny cottage, sitting down on a white swing. Jongin hears the creaking of the metal and he wonders how secure the bolts are. Kyungsoo is holding a hardbound book and the cover says it’s a collection of John Keats’ poems. His legs are tucked close to his chest, looking like a tiny ball with a woolen quilt wrapped around his shoulders. 

 

Jongin hears Kyungsoo mouthing the words softly to himself and he closes his eyes, knees week as he slumps down on the green earth. His head is in between his knees and he takes calming breaths, letting them even out.

 

_( A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:_

_Its loveliness increases; it will never_

_Pass into nothingness; but still will keep_

_A bower quiet for us, and a sleep_

_Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. )_

 

The poetry slips past Kyungsoo’s lips and Jongin imagines, even if he cannot see with his closed eyes, being with Kyungsoo. Maybe his head is pillowed on plush thighs as small hands run through his hair until Keats sounds like a masterpiece to Jongin’s ear because it is Kyungsoo who is reciting the words.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jongin leaves gold and silver and jewels behind for the most beautiful treasure of all. He returns everyday to see the God of Spring Growth as longing settles deep inside him like an unshakeable fog. 

 

His muscles and his joints move like they are enthralled every time melody springs forth from Kyungsoo’s throat and through his lips. Jongin sometimes pulls out his ballet lessons from more than a hundred years ago, learned when he’s a lonesome boy—almost a man—in the cutthroat dance studios of Paris. Jongin extends his legs and he points his toes, reaching for the distant memory of wooden floorboards and handrails in front of endless mirrors and competition.

 

The God of the Underworld loses himself with the motion and Kyungsoo’s voice makes him feel like a moving artwork even if he butchers his port de bras and falls down in a failed chassé en tournant. Everything makes Jongin ache completely, wholly, utterly. He feels like Prometheus, chained to a rock and a food for the eagles but never dying. 

 

Jongin wonders if this will ever be enough, to be able to look at Kyungsoo from afar with his fingers twitching near his thighs, yearning to touch and to hold just once. Maybe in the next few centuries, when he has grown accustomed to the phantoms and the ghosts of non-existence culminating in to unrequitedness.

 

Gods are selfish by nature and Jongin is no different.

 

He wants to own this beauty, cradle him in the cup of his hands, but gods can never own other gods—they’re not mortal playthings. He’s not even sure if he wants ownership when the desire for possession is spilling through his hope for reciprocation, to be owned and to be possessed too.

 

This is the punishment for the gods.

 

(The tragedy in this: Jongin is a god and gods like him do not have anyone to pray to.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It goes around, naturally. Deities live eternal bastardized lives and they need entertainment. Whispers echo within the halls and penthouses in expensive cities all over the world, sometimes in quaint coffee shops, sometimes in loud, flashing clubs. 

 

The gossip of Jongin being enamored with Kyungsoo, eventually, reaches the ears of the chief gods. In the Olympus, he feels Yixing’s glare on his person. Jongin lets the other god stare as malignantly as he pleases. Jongin’s suit is French and custom-made.

 

Jongdae finishes his speech with a flamboyant and overdramatic wave of his hand. Jongin nods and says his salutation. It’s all unimportance disguised as formality at this point. There isn’t any need for divine intervention.

 

(The God of the Underworld thinks wryly that the mortals are luckier than him.)

 

He stands up from his seat beside Jongdae and Yixing shoots him a harsh look before leaving in a flourish of red silk and a single hoop earring. The man stomps towards the exit and even Sehun and Chanyeol go out of their way to avoid him. The two other gods have both of their eyes trained on Yixing’s retreating figure before they turn to approach Jongin.

 

“Be careful,” Chanyeol says. His voice rumbles and Jongin knows what the God of War is cautioning him against. “You don’t want your mess to cause any imbalance within the mortal world and the pantheon, Jongin.”

 

Sehun smiles slightly and Jongin supposes this is something the God of Love and Beauty can understand. He claps Jongin on his left shoulder, face gentle, commenting, “Devotion looks happy on you.”

 

Jongin opens his mouth but Sehun silences him with an index finger against his lips and a shake of his head. His hair is a bright orange now. “Don’t say anything. If it is meant to be, then it will be. You’re a god, Jongin, and if there’s anyone here who deserves one good thing—it’s you.”

 

The God of Love and Beauty turns on his heels, Chanyeol following suit. The taller god’s hand searches for Sehun’s and Jongin watches as the two of them leaves the room, hands in a gentle intertwine like the the both of them have never started wars and have never incited deaths that have given Jongin multiple headaches.

 

He’s about to leave too when Jongdae grips his right elbow, almost wrinkling his suit. Jongin turns to the other god and he smiles.

 

“Blond suits you,” he comments, grinning playfully at his sibling’s new hair. 

 

“Thank you,” Jongdae beams, impishly. Their relationship has gotten better after centuries of jealousy and animosity, of Jongin holing up in the Underworld and visiting the Earth as a mortal.

 

Jongin asks, “Is there anything you need from me?”

 

Jongdae’s smile slips off of his face but instead of the anger or the reprimand he’s expecting, it’s replaced by sadness. “Care to walk with me, brother?”

 

Jongin nods and the hand on his elbow loosens. They’re a striking pair—Jongin in his suit, no tie with the buttons open to show his tattoos, and Jongdae with his straight blond hair and leather jacket.

 

The heels of Jongin’s dress shoes click against the marble in a pleasant rhythm and Jongdae’s white sneakers create almost no sound. They make their way outside and the sun shines bright and beautiful but Jongin thinks it has nothing on the liminal where Kyungsoo lives, all vibrancy and color.

 

“This Sunday, from noon and for the next three hours after it,” Jongdae begins out of the blue. Jongin turns to his brother but the King of the Gods is looking somewhere distantly.They continue walking, passing a thicket of olive trees. “Kyungsoo is not going to be watched by Yixing and you have the Helm, Hades.”

 

Jongin’s eyes widen and he stops in his tracks. His old name feels foreign to him now—it has been so long since people have referred to him as such with actual reverence. He tugs at his brother’s arm before turning the other god to face him. Jongdae’s countenance is an expression of resignation and secrecy.

 

“What are you talking about, brother?” Jongin asks, accuses, in a course manner.

 

“You know what I am talking about, brother,” Jongdae shrugs. “Yixing always has his protection over the place. There’s no room for escape except on the Sunday at the end of every other month. I believe that is how you’ve seen Kyungsoo first, right?”

 

Jongin nods dumbly. Is his brother implying that he—

 

“Yixing will take a long time to know Kyungsoo is within your realm.”

 

“Jongdae,” Jongin sighs disbelievingly. “Why are you telling me this?”

 

The other god turns to look at Jongin straight in the eyes, holding both their gazes with authority. There’s sorrow in his irises and Jongin thinks maybe his brother is still atoning for his sins from the past thousands of years.

 

“You’re a kind god, almost altruistic, even. Jongin, you’re better than we all were—are—and,” Jongdae chuckles a little, shaking his head in what seems to be rueful amusement, “I want you to have this one thing. I want you to be happy, my dear brother.”

 

Jongin feels himself tremble from his brother’s words and he almost breaks down because he’s so lonely, he’s been so lonely for centuries, for millennia.

 

(Gods are selfish by nature and Jongin _wants._ )

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

On Sunday, Jongin grabs a soft button down in white, leaving most of the buttons undone. His tattoos are stark against the pale fabric and he tucks it underneath slim cut trousers. The suit jacket is tailored and cut to the last millimeter and he brushes his hair back in anxiety and excitement. He keeps the cologne to a minimum and he wears the Helm with pride as he stays suspended on the border of the pantheon and the mortal world.

 

He sees Kyungsoo lying on a white sheet placed over the green grass. The God of Spring Growth looks ethereal—almost ephemeral, like he’s not a member of the divinity, like he can disappear once Jongin blinks. Kyungsoo is serene in his pastel pink sweater and there’s ranunculus growing on his hair out of nothing. He’s surrounded by tiny flowers in pink and baby blue and lavender and yellow.

 

Jongin _wants_.

 

(Kyungsoo looks ready for a funeral.)

 

His feet is light on the soil and his heart skips a beat when Kyungsoo closes his eyes and his long eyelashes flutter shut against rounded cheeks. He takes one step, and then another, and then another until it registers to Jongin that this is the first time he’s been this close to the other god.

 

(And, _oh._ Kyungsoo has light freckles dotting on his face like constellations and Jongin wants to discover the infinity of the patterns from the stars caught on the other god’s skin.)

 

He hears Kyungsoo hum a tune and he stops in his tracks to listen and enjoy the fleeting moment, knowing this may be the last, knowing Kyungoo may hate his very being after what he’s about to do. The notes on the other god’s lips fly with the wind and the melody etches itself on Jongin’s existence like the misfortune of the dead except that it’s not. It’s Kyungsoo.

 

Jongin reaches for the Helm on his head and he’s about to pull it when the God of Spring Growth opens his eyes and the sunlight hits them just so—illuminating the light hazel and Jongin’s heart jumps from his chest cavity up to his throat because the gold irises seem like they’re looking at him directly even if he’s supposed to be invisible to everyone, deities included.

 

He watches, frozen in the middle of the fields, as Kyungsoo’s face takes a contented smile as he shuts his eyes once again. Putting his faith to no one, Jongin takes a deep breath—

 

— _and Hades opens the earth with the sheer force of his desire and sadness, of his need and the burning want he has for Persephone. Shadows escape from the Underworld, borderline physical, but still intangible like the true mark of a king, the god and the place._

 

_His feet are secure on the black chariot and he’s holding the golden reigns tightly, wound twice around one of his fists as dark mysticism engulfs the almost reality. He moves with grace as he watches the stupefied goddess in front of him. Hades bends down a little and, letting go of the reigns, he extends both of his arms to grip a small waist._

 

_Persephone struggles as Hades dumps her near his feet but he says a soft apology to himself, to her, because this is not what he wants, truly. And yet, he’s here—with the Goddess of Spring Growth slumped on the floor of his chariot like she’s garbagewhile Hades brings her down to the Underworld_ —

 

(—and he grips Kyungsoo’s waist, gentle and careful, afraid of breaking the other god even if he is immortal. The smaller doesn’t fight as the King of the Underworld snatches him from his paradise with the intent of bringing him to the fields of the dead. 

 

There’s shock on his alluring features, mouth parted open and Jongin wants to lean in to steal a kiss, to just take and take but the truth is he doesn’t want Kyungsoo to be empty.

 

Jongin is a selfish being but he stops himself from pressing his lips against the other god’s pouty ones just in time.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jongin settles Kyungsoo on his throne and the anguish and the cries of the souls engraved on the gold seep through the marble that is Kyungsoo’s face. The God of Spring Growth looks small in between the armrests of death and opulence. The pink sweater that he is wearing and the ranunculus on his hair are stark in contrast to the eternal gloom flickering all over Hades.

 

He goes down on one knee, forearm resting on one bent leg, and he’s careful to maintain distance so that none of him is touching any of Kyungsoo. He peers up at the other god and he feels so small from the scrutiny of the smaller god looking down on his kneeling form.

 

(It’s ironic. Here is Kyungsoo, minor god of spring growth, and here is Jongin, King of the Underworld, and yet it is Kyungsoo who is sitting down on a throne made of misery and it is Jongin who is kissing the ground underneath his feet.)

 

Jongin stares, unflinching, into deep pools of golden brown, mesmerized at the richness of color. And if Jongin thinks Kyungsoo is beautiful in the middle of green grass and bright flowers or during dusk, when the fireflies illuminate his face to cast shadows on his soft features, then obviously, he’s only partially correct. Kyungsoo is even more of a divinity than he already is, looking like he has transcended immortality, sitting down on the seat of power in the most powerful realm in the pantheon.

 

“You’re so—” Jongin sighs. Kyungsoo is so bright, seemingly too much for the world to bear. His beauty lies not only on his face but in his smile and the way he pulls a note long before it trembles and the kind way he talks to nature like spring will come faster because Kyungsoo asks nicely. Like a stupid mortal, Jongin continues, barely making the words out of his mouth as he shakes his head in resignation, “Gods, Kyungsoo. Do you see how beautiful you are?”

 

He watches as Kyungsoo flinches, shoulders hunching and fingers curling tight into fists. There’s a slight tinge of surprise and an apparent worry with the way his plump bottom lip gets caught in between straight teeth.

 

Jongin’s eyes soften, whispering, “I’m not going to do anything you don’t want, Kyungsoo.”

 

Kyungsoo holds his gaze and he wants to shrink in on himself when Kyungsoo, whose expression has finally calmed down into that of neutrality, replies, “Then why am I still in the Underworld?”

 

Jongin doesn’t have an answer to that so he bows his head low, begging for absolution that he knows will not come.

 

(He remains selfish—greed flowing through hubris.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s been almost two weeks and the intertwining ranunculi in Kyungsoo’s hair have long gone dead. There isn’t anything that can stay alive in the fields of death. Jongin has given Kyugsoo his own room in the palace—a large suite with everything he can possibly need. There’s a sitting area with chaise lounges, plush rugs from half a millennium ago, and a smart flatscreen television with a sound system. The bedroom has a walk-in closet and a large bed with a canopy. Everywhere, there are masterpieces—da Vinci, Rembrandt, Van Gogh—without any coherence to theme or style.

 

Jongin comes down from the mortal world carrying multiple paper bags and boxes wrapped in silk ribbons. He walks across the long halls of his home, making his way to where he knows the God of Spring Growth always is. Kyungsoo’s in the library of his home—in the armchair near the large window, feet propped up in the ottoman. He’s reading Thoreau’s Walden while the grand chandeliers open the words of the book with their light.

 

“How are you today, Kyungsoo?” Jongin asks. He slumps down on the plush rug beside the foot rest, letting everything he has bought to carelessly litter around him, and Kyungsoo looks away from his book and down at Jongin. There’s a hint of smile playing on his lips.

 

“Fine,” he answers. “Thoreau is an interesting man.” Kyungsoo closes the book, index finger still in between the pages to keep track on his progress. He twists around, running his hand on the cushion and pushing it on the crannies.

 

“What are you looking for?”

 

“A bookmark,” the shorter god answers. “I don’t want to lose where I am.”

 

Jongin hums and he watches as Kyungsoo turns this way and that, even hanging a little off of his seat to peer on the floor. Jongin shakes his head and he pulls one of the receipts on the paper bag he’s holding to hand it to Kyungsoo.

 

Kyungsoo takes the slip of paper, eyes running on the printed words, before he folds it three times. He places it secure near the spine and more than an inch of it peeks out. Kyungsoo puts his feet down the ottoman and Jongin watches as the toes curl on the soft carpet. He shuffles closer so that he’s facing Kyungsoo directly, as he puts Kyungsoo’s socked feet on his lap. He cradles both on his palms, making circular motions on the balls of the other’s feet and wiggling the god’s small toes.

 

“How was Earth?” Jongin detects longing and want in the low timbre of Kyungsoo’s voice. Desire forms the moue of his plush lips and the light hazel of his eyes twinkle with yearning.

 

(It looks familiar.)

 

“Noisy,” Jongin automatically responds. “Buzzing. There are a lot of people.”

 

Kyungsoo looks excited at what, in Jongin’s opinion, are trivial annoyances that come with the fragility of human life. 

 

“Jongin, can I—”

 

“No,” Jongin looks up, almost frantic. “I have everything you will need here with me, Kyungsoo.”

 

Kyungsoo’s face noticeably falls and Jongin’s heart clenches because Kyungsoo still wants and wants but what it is that he longs for is never Jongin. It may never be Jongin. The God of Spring Growth fancies cemented sidewalks and smog, sunlight filtering in the humidity of packed crowds, honking cars and pedestrians. 

 

Jongin’s all gold and diamonds but the crowns and the jewelries he has given Kyungsoo glimmers on top of his dressing table, untouched and untried. Marble halls and servants cannot compete with the adrenaline of being alive in the land of the living, he thinks.

 

“I have gifts for you,” Jongin says softly. He tugs the bags closer to himself and he pulls out various articles of shoes and clothing. There’s a wrapped package tied with a string that holds four hardbound books. There’s a box of pastries from a famous bakeshop in Tokyo.

 

Kyungsoo refuses to eat.

 

(Kyungsoo has not eaten anything that Jongin has offered in the Underworld. It’s smart, he knows, because it’s the most beautiful and heartbreaking way to tell Jongin that Kyungsoo really does not want to be here.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jongin watches as Kyungsoo deteriorates as the sun leaves him and the ichor on his veins do not flood his cheeks red anymore. He feels heavy with guilt and the burden of his sins when Kyungsoo sits on the dining table, gulping saliva as feasts are prepared in front of him—whole roasted pig and chicken, bowls of rich sauces, glimmering honey drizzled on plump figs topped with hefty slivers of almonds, olives filled with feta cheese soaked in olive oil and spices, flavored rice and grains. He watches as Kyungsoo twitches and he holds his breath when Kyungsoo’s index finger strays on one of the silver utensils lined on both sides of antique porcelain china, tracing the cold metal with the tip and then pulling back as if burnt.

 

(He doesn’t have anyone to ask for forgiveness so, before he goes to rest, Jongin always prays to Kyungsoo in apology.)

 

It all becomes too much when Jongin goes inside Kyungsoo’s room to find the god sitting on the lounge chair, flipping the channels on his television. He sits on the other end and Kyungsoo turns to him with a bored face.

 

“What is it this time, Jongin?”

 

Jongin cracks a little but he forces a smile as he hands a velvet box to Kyungsoo. “I have a gift for you.”

 

“Another?” Kyungsoo asks, bored. He extends his hand and he grips the box loosely, like it’s something that will contaminate him. He fiddles with the golden lock before he flips it down, lifting the lid. Jongin watches as Kyungsoo’s face remains neutral as he takes in the white gold molding in to a collection of flowers to make a coronet. There are bright red rubies and diamonds in rare cuts embedded on the expensive headpiece. 

 

Kyungsoo’s face shutters and he turns a glare on Jongin’s direction, spitting, “I’m not going to become your consort, King of the Underworld.”

 

Jongin falters and he says, “I didn’t mean it li—”

 

“Please get out.” Kyungsoo’s voice breaks. The fight leaves his tense shoulders and they droop down in resignation.

 

Jongin stands up and he makes his way to the door slowly but not before hearing Kyungsoo’s dejected whispers, part disappointed and part self-loathing.

 

( _I exchanged a prison for another prison._ )

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Kyungsoo,” Jongin murmurs. He’s sitting beside the god’s bed and the other is sleeping peacefully. He whispers again, “Kyungsoo?”

 

The god stirs from his slumber, twisting towards Jongin and the King of the Underworld watches as thick eyelashes move like butterfly wings against pale skin and Kyungsoo’s lips part before he groans. It’s not very god-like but Jongin finds it amazing nonetheless, to catch a glimpse of mortality within the confines of Kyungsoo’s endlessness.

 

Brown eyes open and the light shines on him to turn the pools of mud into liquid gold. There are flecks of green like fresh grass in the morning on Kyungsoo’s irises. 

 

“Jongin?” He asks groggily. Both his elbows are sinking down on the soft bed, propping himself up. One of Jongin’s hands comes up to press on Kyungsoo’s back so he’s a little more stable in his position. The warmth of his skin filters through the thin material of pricey silk he’s wearing. Kyungsoo doesn’t flinch and Jongin’s lips twitch when the other’s arms quiver slightly, allowing Jongin to hold most of his torso’s weight with a single hand.

 

“Good morning,” Jongin smiles. He can feel his eyes disappearing into tiny crescents. He pushes Kyungsoo up so the other is sitting upright, legs stretched out in front of him and his hands hanging loosely on his side. Jongin carefully wipes Kyungsoo’s eyes with his thumbs and Kyungsoo closes them on instinct and tilts his head to Jongin’s direction. 

 

“Good morning to you, too, Jongin.” Kyungsoo yawns, not bothering on covering his mouth. “What’s with the early visit?”

 

“I have a surprise,” Jongin says, leaning closer to Kyungsoo’s space. The other god doesn’t react to the proximity.

 

Kyungsoo’s eyebrows shoot near his hairline and he asks, wary, “What is it?”

 

“We’re going to Greece.”

 

(Kyungsoo creates a garden inside Jongin’s stomach when he smiles so big his cheeks bunch up and his eyes forms narrow archs.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It has been a long time since Jongin has been to Greece. The sun is up overhead and the sunglasses on his face dims the world a little bit. Kyungsoo’s wearing the Helm fashioned into a straw hat and there’s a noticeable spring on his steps as his shoes hit the white concrete. The heat has them wearing thinner clothes, flora printed with expensive dye, and Jongin has his shirt opened low down his front while Kyungsoo has a single button undone.

 

“The last time I was here,” Kyungsoo’s says, “the people were still wearing chitons.”

 

Jongin turns to Kyungsoo, eyes wide and incredulous, half-exclaiming, “That was how many millennia ago?”

 

“I can’t remember,” Kyungsoo shrugs and his pace slows down slightly. “But Father was still more lenient and I managed to have three entire days within a small village. I made oil and helped in harvesting olives with the townsfolk before Yixing took me away with a reprimand. He threatened drought on the people who took me in as a stranger.”

 

Jongin feels goosebumps break into his mortal glamor. Drought means death, in multiples, sometimes in numbers that has him working overtime.

 

“Yixing—” Jongin pauses. He tries to pick his words carefully, treading on the thin ice that separates insolence and disrespect to uncalled for curiosity. “—is overprotective, isn’t he?”

 

To his surprise, Kyungsoo scoffs. “He is. Overprotective seems too light of a word to use as a description for how my father acts and has acted since time immemorial.”

 

Jongin matches his strides to Kyungsoo’s shorter legs and he feels a small hand slither into his before stubby fingers make themselves at home in between his longer ones. Kyungsoo’s hand is warm and Jongin feels like a mortal man, like he can die any moment just because the God of Spring Growth presses himself closer.

 

“Kyungsoo—” His breath catches in his throat and Jongin wonders if this is how human beings feel when they’re about to meet him, when they’re about to go to Hades. He turns his head sideways, tilting it downwards. Kyungsoo meets his imploring eyes and he thinks he’s blushing. Ichor swallows the gold of his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and his knees may have buckled.

 

“It’s okay,” Kyungsoo squeezes Jongin’s hand, swaying it in between them and walking. Jongin almost trips over himself. “I like doing this, Jongin. And it’s a thank you, too. Greece has always been beautiful. It feels like home, right?”

 

Jongin nods dumbly and he thanks the Olympus that he doesn’t blurt out anything about Kyungsoo being more beautiful than the clear blue skies and the sparkling azure water or how home is where Kyungsoo is—in the library of the palace in the Underworld, or the garden Jongin has fashioned from the dark empty plots of land where Kyungsoo has started planting seeds that can survive the eerie ambiance of stifling death.

 

Kyungsoo giggles, however, like he has read Jongin’s mind. He squeezes the taller god’s hand once more and his thumb rubs circles on his tanned skin. There’s a soft grin on Kyungsoo’s face. It’s indulgent without pitying and Jongin feels like a god and a mortal at the same time. Kyungsoo strips him of his divinity with a single gaze but his eyes on Jongin—sweet and compassionate, all springtime bloom and cool breeze in the Elysian fields—make him feel like he can take the entire world in his palms and mold it to his liking.

 

(Jongin has never felt this much of a deity, a ruler, a king, until this very point in his existence.) 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jongin brings Kyungsoo to Paris next. 

 

His Helm is under glamor to look like a small piece of jewelry weaved on Kyungsoo’s brown hair. They walk hand in hand, wearing fashionable suits and sunglasses with their Italian leather shoes scraping the concrete as they run aimlessly on the emptier streets. Jongin dances in the middle of a park as Kyungsoo sings something that he has heard vaguely in one of the French radio stations. They giggle to each other inside museums and Kyungsoo sticks his tongue out when he sees escargots. Their suits are wrinkled after their adventure.

 

In Bali, they buy matching board shorts in blue. Jongin gulps as Kyungsoo displays too much skin but the heat in his belly is quickly replaced with innocent warmth as he watches Kyungsoo frolic in the waves. The minor god builds sand castles and Jongin gathers shells to decorate the small structure. Kyungsoo says it looks like their home in the Underworld and Jongin’s chest feels heavy and constricting as the words escape Kyungsoo’s lips.

 

In Argentina, they visit a book store in Buenos Aires. El Ateneo Grand Splendid lives up to its beautiful name, ceilings reaching towards the clouds and decorated with frescoes from a maestro of the years past. Jongin and Kyungsoo tangle their feet underneath the table in the café on what is once the back of the stage as they pore over their purchase. Kyungsoo leans close to read the words printed on Jongin’s book and their breaths mingle with the mist wafting from their warm drinks. Jongin wants to kiss Kyungsoo—he always wants to kiss Kyungsoo—but he settles for pinching one chubby cheek, relishing in the way the God of Spring Growth yelps as he swats Jongin’s hand with a grin.

 

In Seoul, they visit _Spring Growth_ again and the same attendant in a yellow apron parts his lips in surprise, eyes comically large. Kyungsoo approaches the man and this time, he asks how much the sunflowers are. Jongin ends up holding two dozens of them in thick Kraft paper as Kyungsoo wraps an arm on his waist. He guides Jongin in the streets of Hongdae, passing by independent boutiques selling quirky items. They end up getting milk teas each and Kyungsoo chokes on the pearls as Jongin laughs so loud his sides hurt, attracting the attention of the other customers. 

 

The sunflowers end up quickly dying when they return to Hades, withering to practically nothing, but neither of them really minds. Jongin says they can get new ones anytime Kyungsoo wants.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The whispers of the dead has brought upon the news of Yixing’s suspicion towards Jongin. He has managed to keep the fellow principal god out of his business for months but his and Kyungsoo’s careless foray into the mortal world has the winds murmuring in Yixing’s ears.

 

Kyungsoo is curled up on his couch, back against the armrest as he reads one of the books they have gotten from Buenos Aires. Neruda escapes from in between his lips, soft with perfect inflections, as Jongin sits facing him. On the coffee table, there are two glasses filled with wine, a bowl of pomegranate seeds and another filled with plump strawberries, and a plate of biscuits with a variety of cheeses. 

 

Jongin takes a deep breath and he reaches for the book that Kyungsoo is holding. He pries the text, slowly uncurling Kyungsoo’s fingers and placing the leather bound book on the table near the bowl of fruit.

 

Kyungsoo shoots him a questioning glance, a slight pout on his lips.

 

“I—” Jongin pauses, stops. Kyungsoo takes his hands in between his and he doesn’t notice that they’re shaking until the other god caresses his wrist in a comforting manner.

 

“Calm down,” Kyungsoo says.

 

Jongin nods his head and the sentence slips past his mouth, unbidden. “Yixing is coming to get you any moment now.”

 

Kyungsoo freezes up and the ministrations on Jongin’s skin halt.

 

“Is he?” Kyungsoo asks nonchalantly. 

 

“Yes,” the King of the Underworld breathes out. The string of words quivers like his long fingers. “You can go with him. I won’t keep you here, Kyungsoo. You can go back home to your father.”

 

( _Maybe January light will consume_

_My heart with its cruel_

_Ray, stealing my key to true calm._

 

_In this part of the story I am the one who_

_Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,_

_Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood._ ) 

 

Kyungsoo hums and Jongin’s heart breaks when the smaller god lets go of both his hands with a small smile. This is it, Jongin thinks. The end.

 

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo sighs. Jongin hears crashing on his ears and his pulse starts galloping as the God of Spring Growth plucks the bowl of pomegranate seeds from the low table, placing it on the space between them. He says softly, with a smile, “I have some things that needed a lot of explaining.”

 

Jongin shakes his head and he cracks, “You don’t. It’s—I’ll take full responsibility in front of the council of gods—”

 

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo repeats again. He’s a little exasperated but there’s a hint of fondness in his voice. “You really need to let me talk.”

 

The God of Hades flinches as Kyungsoo’s index finger traces the rim of the glass bowl delicately. There is still a small smile on his lips.

 

“Jongdae told you about the secret of my prison because I asked him to,” Kyungsoo confesses. His finger stops moving and Jongin’s heart skips a beat when Kyungsoo plucks a red seed with his thumb and index finger.

 

“I knew you were watching me. Not at first,” Kyungsoo shakes his head wryly, “but the field I was in was not just a cage but a place that I protect and take care of. It’s more than a meadow of eternal spring, Jongin. It’s a manifestation of me.”

 

Jongin watches, breath hitching, as Kyungsoo takes the seed in his mouth, tongue flicking out to lap the juices. 

 

Kyungsoo continues, apologetic, “I thought if you took me, I’d have more freedom. I hated being in that place. I hated my father a bit. I thought, the God of the Underworld was enamored with me and I should take advantage of it. For that, I am sorry.”

 

The other god looks contrite and his head is slanted down low. Jongin finds it harder to breathe when Kyungsoo takes two more seeds, eating them with a smile. That’s three of them.

 

Jongin reaches for the bowl, attempting to take it away, but Kyungsoo snatches his hand. He curls his hand against Jongin’s, fitting his fingers in the spaces between the other god’s.

 

“Kyungsoo,” Jongin half begs, “please stop eating. Don’t do this to yourself.”

 

( _How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,_

_My savage and solitary soul, my name that sends them all running._

_So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,_

_And over our heads the gray light unwinds in turning fans._ )

 

Kyungsoo shakes his head with a laugh. This time, he takes three more seeds and red drips down his pale skin, unnoticed by the other. Kyungsoo places them in his mouth and his eyes turn into half-moons as he makes a show of chewing. 

 

“I spent some months with you and I realized why everyone talked about how good you were among the other gods. You granted me things I’ve never had before and I was extremely thankful.” Kyungsoo takes the bowl in both his hands, replacing it on top of the table. He shuffles closer to Jongin—upright on his knees like he’s praying to god, to Jongin. “But do not think of this as pity or a payment in exchange for what freedom you have given me. We will have six months in every year for the rest of forever to figure everything out and I want you to trust me. I want to gain your trust, Jongin.”

 

Kyungsoo leans down and the ichor in Jongin’s veins turn into blood as they thunder in his ears. The God of Spring Growth presses his plumps lips against Jongin’s—soft and chaste and innocent—and he tastes sweet and tangy from the pomegranate seeds and a little floral, too, just from being himself.

 

“But, Kyungsoo,” Jongin whispers but hope starts forming in his mind. “I don’t want to make you do things you don’t want.”

 

The God of Spring Growth laughs softly and he bends his head slightly. His forehead is against Jongin’s forehead and the taller god can clearly see that freckles dotting the other’s face and the specks of green on his eyes. 

 

“I think the earth can stand a little bit more of Yixing’s wrath so spring can bloom in the Underworld where you are, where we will both be.” He closes his eyes but he hears Kyungsoo’s words clearly, lips brushing against Jongin’s parted mouth. Softly, reverently, Kyungsoo adds, “And, Jongin—”

 

( _You can’t make gods do anything_.)

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> the writing style for this is very experimental so i apologize if it's not to your liking. poetry by keats and neruda; the hades/persephone part is something i made by myself.
> 
> leave comments, kudos, and whatever else since i like them.
> 
>  
> 
> complaints go to my [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/official_KJD21).


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